The House of the Midnight Sun
by Joe X. Hunt
Summary: The story behind the story of Twilight. The real-life Edward and Bella: one a lives in a home for troubled youth; the other wants to be the next Jane Austen. He's only joking that he's a vampire...but it blows up in his face. (Also involves a time-machine.) Alice is in the love triangle this time.


**Chapter 1: The House of the Rising Sun**

First off, I'll say: she came up to _me_ first, and hit on _me_. So I can't be held responsible (don't blame myself) for whatever happened after that: breaking her heart, and the whole House of Cards falling over me.

I was just sitting in the cafeteria, drinking Pom. She comes up—all fake-Goth—and whispers in my ear: "I wanna join your club." (Took her a while to build up courage.)

"What? It's not a f-ing club," I said. Abrasive on purpose. "Ya have to be a troubled youth."

"I can do _troubled_," she said. As if we were holding auditions.

Carlisle thought she was a narc from day one—from Children's Services.

I took her in as a joke, to see how long she'd last. Call her bluff. And I knew her from Physics. I'd been cheating off her for weeks. (Maybe I needed her—for a few things.)

So, the first night (I lived in a group home—we called "The House of the Rising Sun," as a joke): it was one of the crazier nights—but maybe on par for the course…People were trying harder, because there was an audience.

Alice was holding a séance, saying: "O disembodied spirits, Djinnis, and cryptids: hear our summons! We are lonely on this earth, in need of wisdom and direction in our lives. Show yourselves!—in whatever form you can take. Plink on this xylophone, if you can hear me!"

Someone bit Stephanie's leg, under the table. She screamed, and let go of my hand. Alice yelled "Don't the break the circle!"

Jasper and Benji were having a glass-eating contest. That's what we did—stuff like that. Surrealist parlor games…Drinking absinthe—the "green fairy"…

"This place is so weird," said Stephanie. "_I love it._ You guys are like the Manson Family."

"What?" I said. "We are _not_." Sometimes she said the weirdest stuff. (She hadn't met Carlyle yet.) I told her: "I imagine, from the outside, if you're not used to it…it must look like a circus—"

"It looks like _Halloween!"_

"But it's actually very common-sensical."

"Oh, really?" she said. "How?"

"Well…" I said, "for example, Alice is really trying to contact some ghosts—like a metal detector—to find some buried treasure. She got the idea from that movie _Le Bou._"

"You've seen _Le Bou_?" she asked. "I thought I was the only one."

"You are," I said. "I never said_ I_ saw it. Alice did. But, yeah. Everything here exists for a reason. It's not just for fun. This is rehabilitation—building up confidence and defense mechanisms. To survive in the real world."

Carlyle was going through a Mindfulness phrase (reading Phil Jackson's autobiography).

"I guess being a _pole-dancer_ is a valuable real world skill," she said.

"It _absolutely_ is," said Alice. She came up to join us. (Rosemary was having a go at the pole.) "Carlyle tries to do what school is _supposed_ to do," Alice continued. "Figure out your talent, help you develop it. He can't help it if he's a little dark and melodramatic, watches too much TV…"

"Everyone's good at something," I chimed in.

"So, what you call 'developing talents,' someone else might call _exploiting_," Steph said. "Can't you see him as a modern-day _Fagin_?—or Pied Piper. Getting you guys to do his dirty work. Bring back the spoils: some drugs or _s-e-x_…Surprised you're not making Nike shoes in the basement…"

"Hey, you can't believe everything you hear," I said. I was sick of the rumors about Carlyle.

"Fine," she said. "So, hey. What's your talent?"

"Mine?" I said.

"He's the human vampyre," Alice answered for me.

"Sh," I put a finger to my lips. "That's s'posed to be top secret. If we tell you, we have to kill you."

_"Shut up!"_ she said. "Are you messing with me? I wanna see you do it."

"Alright," I said. "Of course, you're probably not volunteering. Wouldn't wish it on your worst enemy."

"I volunteer as tribute," Alice said.

"Swell," I said. "Nothing tastes better than Alice." (I'd done it with her a number of times.) Pulled out a switch-blade, always kept in my pocket.

It is funny we ended up on that. I actually know a ton of tricks. Can juggle, for example. And throw knives…

The way that whole vampyre thing got started was: of course, it's pretty natural, if you prick your own finger, to suck on it. Think it'll stop the bleeding.

Carlyle told us one time: "You know, leeches have _anti-coagulating _properties…doctors are trying to duplicate." (He actually tried teaching us stuff when I was younger. He cared more.)

So, I got the idea into my head: that maybe my saliva had leech-like properties. And sometimes, when a smaller kid got hurt—Alice, for example—I'd suck on theirs, too. (Or like sucking out poison.) It was funny. I was probably ten, when that started. Considered myself an older kid.

Then, I started thinking I could taste the difference between one person's blood and another's. They'd actually blind-fold me, and I'd guess. (Probably cheat, though: seeing through the blindfold, whatever.)

We did other taste-tests, too. Coke versus Pepsi, faucet versus bottled water. So, it wasn't as strange as it sounds.

But once we landed on that, me and Alice turned up the showmanship. I pricked the tip of Alice's finger, then paused—waited for the blood to bubble up.

"Contrary to popular belief," I explained, "it doesn't take a lot—for a vampyre. Like The Tin Man on _Wizard of Oz: _my body, on the inside—the skeleton—is made of marble. I require a few drops to oil the hinges. Otherwise, I'll rust over…" I lapped it up, like a kitten or something. Alice's eye-lashes fluttered. (That was my favorite part.) "But ya have to be careful. Once you start, it's more addictive than coke. Drink too much, and you'll drown—from the inside, out."

(I actually remember reading in _Fight Club _that you can drink like three pints of your own blood before it messes you up.)

A small crowd had gathered around.

"Keep going," Alice said. She squeezed her finger, and even Benjit down, to try enlarging the wound with her own mouth. (She actually went through a cutting phase.)

"No, no," I said. "For my eyes only. The spell would break, if you drank your own blood."

"I wanna try it, too," said Stephanie. And then: "What spell?"

"It doesn't matter what you want," said a deep voice. All of us turned—to see Carlyle, making his nightly appearance. "You can't always get what you want. Like the Rolling Stone song. It's up to _moira—_Fate. Gotta play the hand Fate deals you."

The crowd dispersed.

It was actually Carlyle's fiftieth birthday party. He didn't want it—like the black balloons. And half the people there didn't know. Didn't need much of an excuse.

"What have we here?" Carlyle asked. "A mere mortal?"

"For the time being," I said. Then started to introduce them…

He took Steph's hand, to kiss it, then smell it. "Or do I detect some fairy blood?" (Continuing our earlier joke.) He couldn't help himself.

"Right," I said. "Carlyle, Stephanie Meyer. Stephanie Meyer, Carlyle." Then, he went in closer, to kiss her on the cheek (as if he's French).

So, that was his first instinct—always—to charm her, or anyone. But as soon as we were alone… (Steph and Alice went to get some drinks), he said: "I don't like her. I don't trust her. I don't want her hanging around here…but _damn_, is she fine. Sleep with one eye open around that one."

Later that same night…it happens all the time, so I wasn't surprised. People think there's some dark energy swirling around the place—that could be mistaken for any kind of vibe. (Maybe it's just the music in the background. One of Carlyle's secrets: you can't tell where it comes from. No visible speakers. Like he has a harp player and steel drum—half an orchestra—chained up inside some wall.)

But, really…there's fumes: regular weed or opium. Like, the whole house is one big glass hookah. (And can't throw stones.)

Some time after midnight, me and Steph got alone (enough), somehow, in front of the fire-place. I was barely awake. We were talking in short sentences about hardly anything. The length of time between each word getting longer. Our faces and mouths were inches apart. Then, she broke the spell—said overly loud: "Are you feeling what I'm feeling?"

I drew back instantly. "You can't _talk_ about it. Ruins the mood. Jesus, you are an amateur."

"I know," she said, unashamed. "That's why I'm here. I need you—to teach me the ropes. Bring me over to the dark side."

That's what rattled me…If she hadn't said that…No one wants to think, deep down, that they're bad. A bad influence.

I took a long look at her—this prissy, little daddy's girl—and pretty much decided then and there: I wouldn't touch her. Even if I needed her, for other stuff—we could keep hanging out…I wasn't going to corrupt her. Let someone else do it.

But: I wasn't sure what to do. If I left her alone: others would move in—like sharks tasting blood in the water.

I got up, to go to the bathroom (and think it over). Sure enough, when I got back: Jasper the Friendly Ghost—and James—were loitering over her.

"So, you're a Libra," James was saying. "But: did you know they just switched up the Zodiac?—added a thirteenth sign—so whatever you thought you were, you might be something else…"

"Hey, leave her alone," I said to both of 'em. "Scram." It _almost_ worked.

Then Carlyle's huge grandfather clock struck three. (I really hate that clock. Actually wakes me up sometimes, when I sleep on the couch.)

"It's three a.m," said Jasper, excited—almost jumping up and down. "The witching hour. Time to sacrifice a virgin. Are you a virgin? Let's find out."

I don't think he actually would've done it—you never know—but: he had her hand on his wrist. She was a little fatigued, wasn't thinking straight either, so maybe she panicked.

But we never found out—what would've happened next. A motorcycle ran straight through the door, knocked it over. It was Jake the Snake, to the rescue. (Which means: I think she was wearing a wire. Maybe Carlyle was right, about her being a narc.)

"What's going on?" I said. "What the hell?"

"None o' your business," said Jake. She hopped on behind him, without a word, and disappeared into the night.

**Chapter 2: Her Diary**

For her, it was an experiment—a pet project: to try and fall in love. I'd heard about Stephanie Meier, that her heart was made of ice-cubes. She'd never felt emotion in her life. Not when her parents divorced, not when her grandfather died…

And she'd never been kissed or anything. Holed herself up in the library (since she moved from Arizona), reading romance novels. No wonder her brain was fried.

But I don't think the idea was to fix her emotions—"to take a pick-axe to the frozen sea inside her" (I read somewhere). She didn't care about that. Really, she just wanted the experience to write about it afterwards. She wanted to be the next Jane Austen—or Danielle Steele, whoever.

Steph tried to keep it a secret for a while. She actually had one of those diaries with a lock. Jasper found it, going through her back-pack. (He has no tact.) "What's this?" he said.

"Nothing," she said. "Gimme that!" And she lunged.

That's what he wanted her to do—just to touch her. Played keep-away with her reaching around him. "It has to besomething—if you want it so bad," he said. Then threw it to Benji. He's kind of dumb, will play along with anything. (Stephanie calls him "Emmett" in her book.)

Benji threw it back to Jasper. I was already tired of it. Kind of shameless. There's better ways to get a girl's attention. But wasn't going to intervene—until I saw Steph was almost in tears, saying: "Come on, you guys. This isn't funny."

"We just want to peek inside," said Benji. And he actually chomped on the lock, bit it off. (Not a huge feat when you eat glass for a living.) And could still hold her off with one hand. "_Forks_," he sounded it out. (The name of our hick-town, and the original title.) "_A Vampyre Novel_."

Then, I swiped it out of his hand.

"Okay," said Stephanie—like she was beat. And didn't know what I was going to do. I didn't either. "I'll let Edgar read it. But just him." That was a smart compromise.

"Okay," I said. "The rest of you—_Casper the Friendly Ghost_: show's over…I need some elbow room—to really concentrate. Where's my pipe and slippers?" I had a commanding voice, so they kind of drifted off. And we went up to my room, to be sure.

"You're writing a vampyre novel?" I said, on the stairs. Thinking _Does this have anything to do with last time you were here?_

"I was going to tell you," she said. "Don't be too hard on me."

"I guess I should feel _flattered_," I said. But it was kind of weird—like too much, going overboard. We didn't know each other that well, yet. (But I guess she never let that stop her.)

I lay on my bed like a hammock, and started reading. Asked once: "You're okay with me reading this?"—to be polite.

She had this look on her face, like trying to brace herself, but, also, excited. "It's not done yet. Just a rough draft—of the beginning."

It seemed a little derivative—like Anne Rice or those Sookie Stackhouse novels…but there was something kind of charming. Mostly, how serious she was, and how hard she was trying.

Of course, I could see it was about me and her—really thinly veiled. And that was weird: like she was stalking me, she had these fantasies. But I tried not to let that phase me. Look at it ironically. (It was funny.)

I tried to focus on some other stuff, instead. "Can't be seen in a mirror: check," I said out loud. "Doesn't take kindly to silver: check." Then "You had to google that ? Don't they teach that stuff in kindergarten?"

Of course, she was automatically crestfallen. Bit her lip… (She did that sometimes, when she was thinking—I'd noticed.) But she was pleased, that I was taking an interest, wasn't automatically weirded out. And as if: now, it could be our project—we could work on it together. I saw the gears spinning in her head. "What if I call them 'the Cold Ones'? That's kinda different…"

"You're missing the point," I said. "The fact that the narrator has to google _anything_, in the first place. Makes you look dumb."

"I like it," she said. "Has to figure out, somehow."

I thought _She could use the brain God gave her, _but stopped arguing.

"So, but…whaddyou think?—overall. _So far._ Again, it's just a draft."

"Well…" I said. Had to choose my words carefully. "You're no Dostoyevsky."

"I'm not trying to be _Dostoyevsky_. I'm trying to be Jane Austen. Or Charlotte Bronte..."

"Alright, then. Mission accomplished," I said.

She kind of beamed. "Can I have it back now?" she asked. I tossed it to her. "Don't quit your day job," I teased. She pushed me back on my bed, and I lay there a second too long.

She crawled over me in two or three motions.

"Okay," I said. "You've been a good girl. One kiss." But it was a really long one. "Do you think I'm cold now?"

I had time to think, just sitting there, kissing her. _So, that's what she's in it for…But what's in it for me? _That was slightly more complicated.

I thought it was funny, what she was doing—tagging along (out of her element) and writing about it. I need some comic relief every now and then. And like I needed a hobby. Help pass the time. Really, high school was going excruciatingly slow. I couldn't wait to graduate and leave that hell-hole behind me. I wanted to go back-packing, see the world—live in youth hostels. Maybe go to college, for International Finance.

So, that's probably truly what it was about for me: _time_. To make time go faster.

She even asked me once, point-blank: "I know you don't have to do this: _play along._ I know you don't really like me. So why?—what are you thinking?"

"Because…you know. I'm cheating off you," I said. "You're good at Physics…even if there's no _chemistry_ between us."

"Very funny," she said.

That time, we were sitting around in the Commons area, watching a _Simpsons _re-run. We weren't doing any hard drugs. "It's just _Oxycontin_," I told her. I was telling the truth. And also: "But, hey, if you're gonna live in this house, you have to take what's coming to you, no questions asked." But it felt different. I swear Carlyle must have been piping in some laughing gas. He liked to experiment, mess with our heads—just for fun.

My head was really foggy. That's the only explanation for what I came up with next…

First, Stephanie said: "So, whaddya you guys doin' after college?" Me and Alice were Seniors. She was a Junior.

"The same stuff I'm doin' now," said Alice. "What else is there to do? Look at me. I'm doin' it." She had a waitressing job at Denny's. "F-in' sucky twenty-first century economy," she continued. Then: "I think I was born at the wrong time. Shoulda been a child of the Sixties. Drugs, sex, and rock 'n' roll. That's what I'm all about…"

She actually played bass guitar a little, in a band. One time Alice told me it was half her dream and half her greatest fear: that she was doomed to join the "Forever 27 Club." Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Amy Winehouse…

I told her "I think you have to be the lead singer. Not the bass player. Doesn't work that way."

Stephanie said: "I think that, too. But I'd pick the Victorian Age. Or Elizabethean." (They had _a little _in common.)

I couldn't take it anymore, and said "Gimme a break." Thought it was a stupid, nonsensical argument. "If you guys got your wishes: _you _[Stephanie] would probably die in childbirth. And _you'd_ [Alice] be dead off an overdose…That's what life is all about: taking advantage of your circumstances. Can't sit around…daydreaming you're somewhere else. Might as well wish the sky was green."

"Alright," said Stephanie. "You think you're so smart…What are you gonna do, with your life?"

"Yeah, we're not getting any younger," Alice mumbled.

"I am," I said. (Feeling slightly sarcastic.) Maybe wanted to keep my plans secret—so no one would follow me, into Europe. So, said the craziest thing I could think of: "Actually, I'm building a time machine." (I almost never gave Steph a straight answer.) "I'll bring you back a souvenir from the Victorian Age. Like a _corset_."

"Shut up," Steph said. "A _time machine_…" Scornfully.

"That's right," I tried to say convincingly. "That's why I'm still in school. Wouldn't be _caught dead_ in there, otherwise." (I flunked a few grades or classes—because I didn't care. But Carlyle made us get a diploma, just in case.) "Heidrich's helping me." The Physics teacher. "Heidrich's the smartest guy in this town. But he's getting old. Won't live to see it to completion. But _you're_ his star pupil. Practically his protégé. That's why I need you."

"Are you being serious?" she said. "I can never tell."

"It's in the basement," I said. "But: I forbid you. It's a work in progress. More secret than your diary! And got some other stuff down there—Carlyle's toys…Think of it like Bluebeard's door. If I showed you, I'd have to kill you." (The second time I threatened her like that.) "Or like the Medusa. The very act of looking at it…would turn you to stone."

"What's he talking about?" Alice asked. I half-forgot she was there.

"Is he really building a time machine?" Steph asked her.

"He is, if he says he is," said Alice. "Edgar's a regular Renaissance Man."

"Someday," I said. "I'll be _the _Renaissance Man. I could go back in time and kill Da Vinci, sign my name on all his artwork…Wipe that smile off the Mona Lisa's face."

"Then we'll be reading _The Da Edgar Code_," said Alice.


End file.
